


Five Times From The Jump Where Folks Had Zisys Shepard All the Way Fucked Up, And One Time Garrus Vakarian Found God in a Tramp Stamp

by BelowBedlam



Series: Poetry for Interstellar Blitz [1]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Casual Sex, Earthborn (Mass Effect), F/M, Interspecies Sex, Ruthless (Mass Effect)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 12:33:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7508419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelowBedlam/pseuds/BelowBedlam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Literally what it says on the tin. Basically an introduction to Zisys Shepard, Earth-Born Ruthless Vanguard, in the time before she’s made Spectre.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times From The Jump Where Folks Had Zisys Shepard All the Way Fucked Up, And One Time Garrus Vakarian Found God in a Tramp Stamp

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all I'm making the switch over from Dragon Age (*coughgocheckitoutcough*) to Mass Effect, and here's a first, exploratory thing I hammered out about my Z Shepard. Hope you enjoy!

**1.**

Everyone always thinks that Zisys will be meaner than she is, as if she can’t just be about her job and  _not_  be a horrible person at all times. She’s already had to get on Joker about that shit. Now, this Kaidan Alenko.

With all of the things everyone hears about the Torfan mission, you’d think they’d tread softer around a commander who’d lost most of her squad making sure slavers couldn’t keep their shitty trade going. But no; Commander Shepard is supposed to be an all-around hard ass. Cold blooded. Gets the job done, no matter the cost.  _Kills_  most of her squad, holy shit, what a brute.

It’s tiring. She might not be the friendliest, but she’s not a goddamn monster.

What no one seems to grasp is that this idea of her is just as costly as the things she’s chosen to do, if not more. She keeps a picture of her old squad in her wallet and yes, she still carries a wallet.

“Sorry ma’am, I just expected…I just thought…” Alenko falters, tawny skin going red with blush.

Zisys gets, it in a way. She knows that the only reason she’s on the _Normandy_ is because of Torfan and because  _killing_  all of her crew ended up being a success for the mission. No one would give a shit if they’d failed, which made it all the more important to succeed once she realized that most of them were going to die.

But, no one actually asks about what happened. They just sort of go glassy-eyed and jumpy and expect her to, she doesn’t know, pop them in the mouth or something for speaking out of turn. Say some real cold-hearted shit.

“Tell me what you  _thought_ , Lieutenant,” Zisys says patiently, grinding her teeth. She folds her arms and waits for him to untie his tongue. Dr. Chakwas watches, openly amused.

“I don’t think that’s wise, ma’am.” Kaidan stands at attention and it’s the only thing keeping him from shrinking up like a raisin. Zisys doesn’t mind his soft heart because he’s a good soldier. Besides, everyone can’t stone up. It’s not good for everyone, she realizes.

“Fair enough, then tell me why you don’t think it’s wise. Let’s get to the bottom of this. Right now,” Zisys raises her voice so the nosy crew can hear her. She looks around at each of them so they know she knows. They’d better not say shit to Alenko when she’s through.

Then she turns back to the Lieutenant.

He can’t possibly get any redder. “It’s offensive. It’s…judgmental. And it’s, ah, it’s insensitive.” He lists the correct answers off like a guilty child.

“Yes,” She says curtly, “let’s remember that a lot of good soldiers died on Torfan before we talk about their deaths like some mythic proof of my heartless nature. Because, don’t get it twisted, I  _can_  be ruthless, and you do not want to see it. Understood?”

Zisys straightens her stance and looks up at him. She is shorter, younger, and probably a lot weaker, what with the way he fills out his uniform. He’s got more implants than she does but she’s got the upgrades on hers.

Doesn’t matter, either way; she is his commander.

Kaidan assumes position and salutes. “Understood, ma’am.”

“Good. And since it’s awkward in here now, I’m gonna go finish my lunch below deck.”

The food on board really isn’t that bad but it’s pretty gritty today, and Zisys is damn near out of her snack stash. She doesn’t know when she’ll make it back close enough to earth to re-up, either.

 

**2.**

Nihlus is like those corny loner heroes in the old movies, talking about he moves faster on his own like that’s some profound shit. Literally everyone moves faster on their own. But he looks good saying it, at least, and turian scouts are better than human ones, so Zisys lets him be dramatic. Besides, she needs to look out for Jenkins on this Eden Prime run because he is _way_  too excited to be in the fray.

Fray’s not fun. People die in the fray, halfway between thoughts of impending glory and the intrusive fear that holy shit, this is not as badass as they thought from the safety of mess hall.

Jenkins is halfway between those exact two thoughts once he’s dead. Zisys closes his eyes and makes sure Kaidan hauls ass behind her. Halfway up the bend, she realizes that he’s keeping distance out of respect; he’s probably faster than her. Definitely, actually. Or, maybe his ass is still sore from getting chewed out in public. Maybe he’s sad about Jenkins.

Either way, he’ll have to be alright until they’re out of hostile territory. Now, the talk about her in that respect is true: she runs a tight squad. You  _cannot_  break down in the middle of battle, not even if they shoot your fucking mom.

Zisys remembers running the streets and watching people die. Shooting back when her boyfriend was bleeding out against cracked sidewalk, leaving him there because it didn’t make sense for both of them to go. He hadn’t died. Not then, in any case.

At least up in space they had armor and better strategy and guns, though she kept the gun her boy Matisse had bought for her. Anniversary gift, pearl handle. Cost his broke ass a fortune.

“Keep up,” she calls to Kaidan, though he’s right where he needs to be. Nihlus is still up ahead, so they move on.

And then Zisys sees the shittiest thing she’s ever seen.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Dead people skewered on goddamn pillars. Dead people, moving. Trying to get off of the pillars.

No, nope. Zisys did not wake up this morning to play these games.

She holsters her pistol and pull out the shotgun. Shoots off one round into the freakin’ zombie that’s just seen them.

The fuckers explode.

So Zisys answers in the same language. The grenade safety pin tastes like grease in her mouth; she spits it out once the bomb explodes and fires another round, yells for Kaidan and this Williams chick they’d picked up to keep hot.

It would have been nice to be informed about zombies; if this is Spectre-adjacent shit, she needs to read up on the manual first.

But Nihlus can’t give her anything; he’s dead.

_Goddammit._

**3.**

Whatever the Beacon does to her is top-tier bullshit that she did not sign up for. She signed up for space, as it pertained to traveling it, and shooting the things that shot at her. She did not sign up for millenia-old alien technological fucking witchery, never mind that she’s a biotic her damned self.

All she sees when she closes her eyes is destruction.

Captain Anderson is an asshole as she lets him know in no uncertain terms, behind closed doors and with as much control as she can muster between the throbs of her headache.

“You got me three ways from fucked up, sir,” she says through gritted teeth.

Anderson looks like a hit dog.

And then, Anderson looks like flashbacks from Zisys’ vision.

And  _then_ , Anderson looks like the ship’s ceiling, the lonely light in the room like a lances right through her eyes. The back of her head throbs in pain from the fall.

_This whole goddamn ship got me fucked up. Fuck, fuck, fuck._

 

**4.**

Executor Pallin doesn’t like humans but he sure does eye her pretty damned hard. Zisys thinks it’s the red hair: not particularly the red itself but its vibrancy. And also the smell of the chemicals; she’s heard that a few of the alien races like the way relaxer and dye smell. Of all fucking things. It just smells like home to her, like the shop where Maya did her hair for free every once in a while when Zisys promised to stop running the streets.

Maintaining the color isn’t so bad, even up in space; it seems like the color runs less. It also helps that she’s washing it twice a month at best. But they’ve been on the Citadel for three days and she indulges in a luxurious shampoo after touching up the color, and lets her hair fall out of its severe, high bun.

Executor Pallin had enjoyed the view as he simultaneously slipped scathing jibes at humans into his curt, no-bullshit speech on their first meeting. When she’d left she saw him watching her out of the corner of her eye with more interest than his hating ass should have for her.

“Commander,” comes the wavy turian voice now as Zisys walks down and out of Chora’s Den. “Commander Shepard.”

It is late and she’s on her way to bed from a much needed night out. Zisys had been drunk at one point, but after a very sexy lap dance from one of the pretty performers (she’d even got a kiss) she danced herself sober. Now she just focuses on walking like her feet don’t hurt in her stilettos, because damn it if Commander Zisys Shepard gets caught lacking by Executor Pallin.

 She turns to the turian and gives him a once-over, mean. “Executor.”

Pallin’s gaze follows the way her strapless dress clings to her body, follows the heavily muscled lines of her bare legs. 

“I didn’t think you lived outside of your uniform.” He comes close, towering over her too easily; turians are tall but Zisys is also short and she knows that she’s short. Still, looking up at someone means jack shit if all they have to lord over her is some inches.

“You’re right; this is a trick. I’m dead, Executor.” She smirks as she flips some of her hair over her bare shoulder, knowing how it curls over her breasts and how Pallin drinks it in like water. “Do Turians believe in ghosts?”

“You’re not a ghost,” Pallin says softly. He takes one long nail and traces the wide line of her jaw. Zisys lets him drag his touch down her neck, over the swell of her cleavage. “I wondered if you’d join me in my apartment. We can…philosophize further.”

Oh boy.

Laughing at his corny shit is hardly worth the energy and besides, she likes to tear her men down with a bit more torture. And he deserves it: according to him, humans, her people, are underdeveloped opportunists, but her  _pussy_  seems to be a developed enough opportunity for him.

Zisys takes his three-pronged hand and molds it around her breast, giving him a good, thorough grope before shoving his hand away.

“You literally could not pay me enough, Executor, and I can’t just  _stand here and let you take it,_ ” she parrots his own, earlier words back at him, though the retort is not her best. It’s not her best. But he gets the point, she thinks, with how he rears up at her, indignant.

“Human bitch.”

They all dance the same goddamn dance, don’t they? “Yes, sir.” Zisys salutes him with a middle finger and turns on her heel, making damned sure to switch her ass hard for his angry, horny eye. If there’s one thing Zisys won’t abide, and god has she taken a  _lot_  of shit over the years, it’s men like Pallin. Think they can say whatever on the record, and still finesse themselves some pussy later.

That’s not how any of this works. Not for Zisys.

Thing is now, she wants a bit of fun. So she ignores her hurting feet, because she has ignored much worse than a little heel pain, and heads over to Flux.

It must be turian night because there is literally no one else in the club save a couple humans and a few asari dancers, but Zisys doesn’t mind; turians are funny-fun to dance with because they  _almost_  have rhythm.

And over ten years in space has taught her that, save for some  _nice_  ridges, some super-human strength, and…scales, dick is dick. And that’s what she’s out for, even though one of the asari girls runs her hand over Zisys’s when she walks past.

One guy seems nice enough; he nearly runs her over and startles worse than she does, holding her steady and asking if she’s alright, he’s so  _sorry_ , fucking club is dark.

“I was persuaded into coming,” he says in her ear; Zisys laughs so hard because she’s a dirty shit and about to try that same exact thing on him.

“Dance with me,” she says, guiding his hands to her hips. “I like this song.”

She has no clue what the song is, some spacey techno bop.

Zisys ends up riding her clumsy Turian in a dark corner of the club, bouncing in his lap, and is glad that he’s a little less clumsy sitting down. Even gladder that he’s pretty interested in getting her off, so she doesn’t have to go home irritated.

He’s an ok guy really; he asks to touch her hair afterward and just strokes at the ends where it bends from being in its bun all day. Calls it nice and offers to buy her a drink, but Zisys needs to be ready for this bullshit meeting with the Council in the morning.

“Name’s Garrus,” he says in her ear, then helps her off of him. She sits on his leg while she does up her dress and braids her hair away; he seems a bit shell shocked, so once his dick has done the little retreating thing Turian dicks do she zips his pants for him, patting his crotch.

“There you go, champ.”

“Garrus. Garrus Vakarian,” he repeats, brushing her knee. “You know, you’re gorgeous. Do you work at Chora’s?”

“No, but thanks. You have a real pretty name,” Zisys replies as she stands, slinging her heels over her shoulder as she leaves the club.

 

**5.**

Ambassador Udina is a grumpy old man, old enough to be her father but she thinks that he’d be a shit father.

She watches him growl at Captain Anderson from a crack in her door, waiting for the older man to stalk off before going to greet her Captain. Who is also shitty, but for completely different reason.

“We’ve got a couple hours before angry yelling and blame, am I right?” She asks kindly, not quite smiling at him.

Anderson chuckles. “Udina never stops being pissed. He’s mad at you, but he’s secretly afraid of you.”

“Let me guess. It’s my fault Nihlus is dead, even though he went ahead and I only found his body after the actual killer finished their business.”

“He thinks you’re careless.”

“Well fuck him and his receding hairline,” Zisys snaps. “I protect my men until I can’t. He’d call me reckless if it had been Kaidan who took the full hit. He’d recite what hearsay bullshit he knows about Torfan. Respectfully, sir, he can kiss my ass.”

“Respectfully,” Anderson says, smirking. “Damn it, Shepard. You keep your mouth in check, you can’t charm all the old men with that swamprot.”

She laughs; if Anderson is charmed by her, there’s something wrong with her delivery. “You sure I can’t charm the Council?”

“Not a chance in hell. Realistically, you really should just keep quiet.”

Zisys barks a laugh, throwing her head back for a second before regaining her composure, because he’s talking foolishness.

“Keep quiet. Now, sir…”

“Listen, Shepard. We need them to err on our side. They  _need_  to make you a Spectre. Once they do that, you can say whatever the hell you want. Just keep that in mind.” He smiles at her, clapping her on the shoulder. “Now, you’re cute, but I’m going to go, as you say,  _find some business_.”

Zisys waves him off, shaking her head because Anderson’s only business is his ship and, apparently, Saren.

“Keep my mouth shut,” she mutters, folding her arms. “The disrespect.”

But she knows better. Twelve years in space, dealing with bureaucracy in fucking space after every mission where something broke, and she knows better. These are the people who decide where she goes. They’re the compass.

“As  _soon_  as I’m a Spectre,” she says to no one, “ _Everybody_  can kiss my ass.”

 …

**1.**

_Do you work at Chora’s. **Idiot**._

Garrus should have known she was from the  _Normandy_ ; he’s never seen her before, the _Normandy_ is the only full-human ship docked in the last few days, and she is distinctive. Dark skin and bright red hair, hard around the edges.

He’d fucked Commander Shepard.

Who was now also Captain of the _Normandy_. Now,  _his_  captain.

He’d fucked his Spectre Commander in the corner of a seedy dance club. He’d… _fuck_.

Technically, he’d sat and watched her ride him to the edge of oblivion, trying to remember how to get a human off well enough to get those sweet little sounds from full, painted lips.

Damn it. Maybe he should be thankful that it hadn’t been at Chora’s. Flux was a bit classier, but only a bit.

Now it is early and the _Normandy_ is quiet, and the commander observing. Not him,  _shit_ no, but the vast map of their stretch of the galaxy. Deciding the day’s traverse, no doubt, or simply recounting the steps they’ve already taken in their search for this asari scientist. She thinks that they’re close but she’s never been in this part of the galaxy before, so who knows? Garrus hopes this scientist is worth the effort, because Saren isn’t getting any easier to find.

Her jacket lay over the railing of the navigation deck and she leans over it too, her standard-issue tank top hitched partway up her back. Garrus hadn’t seen her tattoos in the dark; she has one on each arm, as well as the letters R.I.P half-hidden beneath the strap of her tank just above her left shoulder blade.

And there’s something low on her back. It looks like a planet but Garrus doesn’t stare too long because he’s already fucking up.

So he speaks instead because if she turns and finds him on her own, that’s even worse.

“Sleep well, Commander?”

“Jesus fucking-” Shepard jumps, spinning around. “Vakarian! You scared the shit out of me.”

Garrus steps back. “Sorry, Commander. Didn’t realize you hadn’t noticed me.”

“I’d have said hi at least, I have manners. Christ.” She presses her hand to her bosom, sighing. “I’m good. I’m good. So? You an early bird, too?”

“Most days,” he nods. “Are you…planning?”

“Oh, I’ve already mapped this thing out. Loosely. I like having it all lain out from the jump. Then I can break it later if I need to. Come on, come up here,” she says, waving him to her, “I’ll tell it to you.”

She’s definitely in her element, though her trail is a little jaunty; he suggests they hit the planet Archanes before Armeni because then they’ll pass the asteroid belt easier. She nods, making note to bring it to the Navigator.  Garrus smiles at her astuteness and glances at her hair. The style she pulls it into, the high bun, is the neatest thing he’s ever seen. Not a strand out of place; it smells sweet with the pomade she uses. Near her temples the hair waves, and Garrus wants to trace each ripple.

He doesn’t. But, he can’t help getting a better look at her tattoos.

Close up, he sees that the tattoo on her shoulder says.  _R.I.P. Matisse_. The animal on her left arm is a flying lizard. Dragon. She’s also got a funny-looking gun on the inside of her right wrist.

Three of her left fingers have black bands between the second and last knuckles; only two of her right fingers do.

And low on her back…

Honestly, he’s more interested in the way her back curves and dips around the mark than the mark itself. It’s in what he thinks is a most erotic spot, and just above what he knows is a very nice, soft backside. He wants to run his finger over that tattoo, just to know the shallow valley that bisects it. The road of her spine.

 “I’ll be surprised if you could make anything out from all the way up there,” she says quietly, turning damning eyes on him.

Damn, he’s fucked. Garrus swallows. “I’ve… got pretty good eyesight?”

Shepard holds his gaze for the longest breath of his life before scoffing at him.

“Pretty good eyesight. Huh. Take a shot at it then, Vakarian.” She arches her back, and it does nothing but make him remember the easy way she’d taken him in: soft, and hot, and wet, her cheek at his shoulder and her strong back in the same graceful arch.

_“Hey. Do we need to have a discussion?” She’d asked, after they’d done away with the thugs and were high-tailing it to Chora’s Den for Fist. “About the club.”_

_Garrus had gone cold. He had hoped, though he’d gone and given her his full name in a post-coitus rush of sharing, that somehow she wasn’t paying attention. “If I’d have known, I’d-”_

_“Right, same here, Vakarian. No hard feelings, then? At least for now. You let me know if that changes.”_

_“Sure thing.”_

“…Maah-kya?” He says now, knowing by the way she snorts that he’s fucked up the pronunciation of this word. But, beneath a simplified outline of what he assumes is planet earth, is the word  _Makiya_. He doesn’t know it.

“Muh-KEE-yuh,” she says slowly, rolling her eyes. “It’s my name.”

Garrus blinks. “I thought your name was Zisys.”

“Yep.” She shrugs into her jacket, zippering it high and running a hand over the edges of her hair. Now, she looks like the woman that runs the hell out of this ship. And it’s only been a week. “Chew on that for a bit, Garrus. Now get the hell off my stoop. Go find some business.”

“Ma’am.” It’s hard not to snap to attention when she gets the base in her voice, so Garrus does what she says and gets the hell off her stoop. It’s a deck, but stoop works as well he supposes. An earth thing, most likely.

He decides to count it as a good thing that she sort of smiles when she says it, and that she uses his first name.


End file.
